


Found In A Land Of Make Believe

by spnblargh



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Community: deancasbigbang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2013, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, M/M, Sad Ending, combination of schmoop and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 15:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnblargh/pseuds/spnblargh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the weeks leading up to a confrontation with a vengeful spirit, Dean Smith meets a man who makes the corporate life a little more interesting. </p><p>Dean/Cas Mini Bang 2013.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Found In A Land Of Make Believe

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was a monumental effort for me. I haven't written anything close to this length in many years now. 
> 
> I need to thank pheonee (aka tumblr user hawberries), a great friend of mine who also did the beautiful art for this fanfic. She has been incredibly supportive throughout this ordeal!
> 
> Also need to give my thanks to ladyoftheblacklake, who provided the Italian translations for me. She's an absolute superstar!
> 
> I wrote this with the intention of it being canon compliant with It's A Terrible Life. Hopefully this will serve as a kind of missing-scene type fic.
> 
> Because it's canon compliant, you'll have to expect a canon compliant ending.
> 
> Warnings: alcohol, sex, animal death (It's not as bad as it sounds!)

 

* * *

 

 

  

* * *

 

It all began at the conference with HGC Construction. Well, it wasn't _really_ a conference so much as a cocktail party, but if calling it a conference means that Sandover can claim all of the expenses on tax, why not?

And, okay, it didn't _all_ start at the conference, either. Things have just been all kinds of weird lately. It's hard to explain _exactly_ why he feels that way, and it hasn't been anything of great significance, but there have been a whole bunch of little things. Sometimes, for instance, he feels an odd kind of _disconnect_ from his memories, as if he's trying to recall events that he observed on TV than something he experienced and touched. He also has really, _really_ vivid dreams of moments that never happened in his life, like getting a tattoo or taking apart a gun and putting it back together again. His dad owned a rifle back home but he neverlet him so much as _look_ at it for too long.

At the conference, however, something important _did_ happen to Dean Smith.

A spark.

Dean's a smooth talker and he's well aware of it. He's been conversing with the higher-ups all night, dropping his name in whenever he can. He's professional; he dresses well and he _knows_ his business. Nobody's got a decent portfolio these days — GFC and all — and yet Dean's got performance ratings well above average. Mr. Adler and many other members of management have all been very interested in what he has to say about the current financial climate, and when work talk becomes too dull, he's got a repertoire of pop-culture knowledge up his well ironed sleeve. 

He's a damn good businessman and a determined one at that.

The night's still young when the spark occurs. He's hanging around the food table, nibbling at a cracker and cheese, cradling a glass of red wine and being careful to avoid spilling a single drop on his nice clothes. Suddenly, from above, one of the light bulbs blows out of its socket, sending a flurry of glass down all around him.

Dean startles. A spot of wine dampens his sleeve.

When he looks up, there's a man beside him, and the first thing Dean notices is that he has an in _credible_ jaw line. It's angular, contrasts against the soft skin of his cheeks and neck, and it's covered in a light layer of stubble. Then he notices the sleek suit — bearing the mark of Ben Sherman on the front pocket — and the broad set of shoulders that wear it. Fixed to his collar, a sharp contrast against the black shirt, is an outrageously orange tie.

A hand envelops Dean's bicep, comforting, and Dean meets the man's gaze. His heartbeat triples.

"Are you alright?" the man asks, voice unbelievably deep. "That was quite shocking."

Dean would have laughed good-naturedly if his throat wasn't so closed up. This has never happened to Dean Smith before — he's always in control; he's never rendered speechless. His pulse continues to beat furiously.

Dean brings the glass to his lips, takes a small sip, and gulps it down. Gathering himself, he grins handsomely. "Sure was." He extends a hand. "I'm Dean Smith. Director of sales and marketing for Sandover ."

An intrigued curve forms at the corner of the man's lips. "James Novak," he replies, taking Dean's offered hand. His palm is hot against his exposed skin. "Most people call me Cas, though."

"Well, Cas," Dean says, glancing up at the smoking light and then at the mess of glass around his feet. "Perhaps we should move. I'm sure they'll want to clean this up."

"Agreed."

They find a spot away from the DJ that's still close enough to the bar. Dean learns that Cas is a Project Engineer for HGC — "I studied engineering for six years and business for three. None of it has proven useful, of course" — and has worked for the company for five years now. He's two years older than Dean and he's never been married or had any kids, and despite Dean's disgust, he has a passion for heavy metal.

"I'm more of a jazz man myself," Dean explains, watching the way Cas' Adam's apple rolls when he takes a gulp of wine. "Nothing better than a night on the couch with Billie Holiday." He's not sure why he adds, "Preferably in my bathrobe."

Cas cocks an eyebrow at that, finger and thumb leisurely stroking the neck of his wine glass. "I could get into that," he tells him, pupils dilated, and Dean feels heat rumble across his skin.

After that, they get onto the topic of recent films. Then sports. Neither of them are avid fans of football or anything, but they both enjoy the gym considerably. Dean confesses, "It's been forever since I've visited a gym. I'm starting to carry a little extra baggage." Cas says nothing at that, just gives him an amused little smirk, and Dean worries that his tummy will be a turn off.

By the end of the night, Dean's not sure what kind of impression he made on the rest of the reps he was supposed to suck up to, or what Mr. Adler thinks of his behaviour. He'd spent the majority of the evening talking to a guy that appeared in a shower of sparks, whose voice makes him sweat and he doesn't even care. That's probably because he's got a happy buzz going from all of the wine, and also because the company he's keeping is slipping a business card into his hand.

Cas suggests, in a husky whisper, "You should give me a call sometime."

Dean concurs very, _very_ much, but he keeps cool, tells him, "Yeah, I just might."

Later, when he strips down in his apartment and dons his bathrobe, he fixes himself a glass of water with a lemon wedge, and then stands by the living room window to observe the skyline. His stomach is gurgling and his head's starting to hurt but he feels warm, _excited_.

Even later, he lazes in bed and closes his fist around his erection, getting lost in all the ways he could utilise Cas' ridiculous orange tie.

———

The very next day, he finds a choc-chip muffin on his desk. It's been recently warmed up and it's a truly _magnificent_ muffin. Dean might have gained a little weight recently, but even _he_ wouldn't gulp down a whole muffin. Way too many calories.

There's a little note folded next to the muffin, and Dean's eyes sweep over the perfect cursive:

_You seemed like a man of denial.  
Indulge yourself.  
—C_

Dean chuckles, tucking the note into his top desk draw. This should be weird; he doesn't contact people the day after meeting them, but with Cas, it makes him feel _good_. Desirable, even.

On his lunch break, he gives himself more time than usual. He walks to the music store a block away to pick up an Art Tatum CD and a small roll of white ribbon. He returns to his desk and, upon finishing his couscous salad, he carefully ties the ribbon around the CD, using the edge of a pair of scissors to coil it into loose spirals. The ribbon looks nice _—_ professional, even _—_ and Dean's pleased with himself, if not a little nervous.

He finds something suitable to write on and says:

_Time to get cultured, heathen.  
Enjoy some Art.  
DS_

He swallows down his embarrassment when his PA shows up. Dean orders him to, "Take this to HGC Construction. It's for James Novak. Be careful with it."

His PA scurries away with Dean's gift, and Dean's left to lean back in his chair and get back to work. By the time he clocks out for the day, he's finished his muffin in its entirety.

That night, while he's preparing steamed vegetables, he lets the moody tones of Art Tatum wash over him from his record player. The music pours out of the golden horn and fills up the whole room, and all Dean can think about is that, in some other part of the city, Cas might be listening to the same tunes. It's oddly romantic of him to ponder such things, but it feels _right_ to do so, too.

He climbs beneath the bed sheets that night and strokes himself to orgasm, eyes closed and imagining Cas' head between his thighs, bobbing slowly while Stormy Weather plays in the background. Masturbation isn't something that Dean does on a regular basis — twice a week, usually — because hey, he's a _man of denial_ , quote unquote.

He indulges himself twice that evening, finally letting himself fall asleep well after midnight.

———

He gets to work on time, slightly drowsy but nevertheless punctual. Once he enters his office, he discovers another gift on his desk: a bottle of Chianti, and like yesterday, there's a note sitting next to it.

_7PM tonight  
I've made a reservation at La Cucina's.  
Will you join me?  
—C  
P.S. If you could let me know before lunch time, that would be wonderful. Giorgio doesn't take kindly to cancellation at late notice._

Dean's lips curve up, stomach twisting with excitement. He reaches into his jacket to pull out his wallet, quickly finding Cas' business card.

 _Yes, sounds good_ he texts, fingers working deftly across the keypad. He wants to say more, asking if he should make his own way there or if he should dress formal or casual or in-between, but he refrains. He sends off the text and gets a reply within fifteen minutes, reading _I look forward to it_.  
  
The clock ticks by and Dean grows more and more nervous. When he finishes and returns home, he immediately ducks into the shower, running a layer of soap over his skin to eradicate the disgusting amount of sweat that's been sticking to him all day. He takes out an exfoliating scrub — apricot extracts — and scours himself down, sighing in relief.  
  
He towels off and explores his wardrobe options, eventually settling on a pin-striped collared shirt and bright red suspenders. Dean acknowledges that it's a loud look, a bit eccentric, even, but quirky suits him and he's aiming to impress tonight. He parts his hair and combs it down, grumbling when he gets two fly-aways next to his ear. He forces them down with hair spray, then applies cologne to his neck and wrists. His tie matches his suspenders, knotted perfectly.  
  
He's got the unopened bottle of Chianti on the kitchen counter next to his wallet. He's too anxious to eat anything so he drinks down water and sucks at the lemon wedge on the lip of the glass. He reclines in his lounge room in front of the TV, fireplace remaining unlit beside it, and tries to keep his mind busy with the news.  
  
Truthfully, Dean's never dated a guy before. He slept with a couple of men back in his college days, but those were well liquored club-goers who asked, without much preamble, whether Dean wanted to have a quickie in the bathroom. There was also Victor, the buff Law student with lovely eyes and gorgeous skin, but he and Dean mostly just engaged in some mutual masturbation (And occasionally made out if the mood called for it).  
  
Dean doesn't get what's happening to him, why he's suddenly so fixated on this man with the flawless jaw line and the ridiculous orange tie, but he pushes his questions aside in favour of answering the doorbell.  
  
It's not Cas on the other side but a chauffeur, and he can't help but laugh at that. The man doesn't talk much, his words coated in a thick accent — possibly Russian — but he's careful to open the door of the smooth black limo parked against the kerb, shutting it behind Dean gently. Dean eases himself back against the cool leather seat, exhaling softly, and rubs his palms against his business pants constantly. His palms sweat when he's nervous.  
  
They pull up to La Cucina after ten minutes of driving. Dean's eaten here before, back when he worked for EchoStar — his old boss was a pizza fanatic — and he knows how expensive this place is. The food is fantastic, though; the prawn and chilli linguini being a personal favourite.  
  
He exits the limo, wine in hand. Dean hides his anxiety well: squares his shoulders, keeps his chin up, relaxes his white-knuckled grip on the bottle. It's a Thursday night but there are plenty of patrons already seated, midway through meals. Classical music is sliding through the speakers, tickling his eardrums. Dean speaks with the waiter at the entrance, gives him Cas' name, and he's led to a booth in a more private corner of the restaurant. Cas is already seated, wearing all black and a shockingly purple tie. The candle in the centre of the table creates tantalising shadows across his face.  
  
Cas smiles when Dean approaches, and he stands to grasp his hand. As far as handshakes go, this one is most definitely beyond friendly. Cas drags his fingertips from Dean's wrist down to the end of his hand, the movement unbelievably sensual, and Dean fights a shudder forming along his spine. Cas traces the veins along Dean's wrist with his thumb, moving in gentle strokes.  
  
Dean Smith doesn't go down without a fight, though. He gives him the _smoulder_ — the kind that used to dazzle his one night stands — his eyes half-lidded and his smile cocky. It gives him the desired response: Cas' pupils swell, his grip on Dean's hand tightens.

Clearing his throat, Cas gestures towards the opposite seat and Dean slides into place. The waiter seems ignorant of the tension simmering across the tableand opts to present them with their menus.

Cas directs his attention towards the waiter and says, " _Voglio conoscere lo speciale per favore?"_ To Dean's ears, the words seem to roll of Cas' tongue with ease, and the waiter answers him in smooth Italian and a friendly smile. Cas nods in response; Dean's language kink perks up with _great_ interest.

They lapse into silence, the air filled with the hum of violins and the quiet chatter from the surrounding patrons. Dean's heart is beating faster than usual, his left leg twitching constantly beneath the table. He can't shake these nerves that are bubbling beneath his skin. The waiter pours them their wine before taking his leave, and Dean immediately snatches it up to take a large gulp, nearly downing half of the cup.

When he replaces the glass on the table, he's met with an inquisitive brow. "Easy," Cas murmurs, reaching across the table and brushing Dean's fingers with the back of his hand. Dean still hasn't let go of his glass. "Relax, Dean."

Cas's voice is so deep, so _assuring_ , and Dean feels himself loosen his grip on the glass and ease back into his chair. What is he doing? He doesn't get flustered. He's Dean Smith — man of confidence. 

He fixes a smirk on his face, "I'm good, sorry. Just had a stressful day. Can't stop thinking about this deal I'm trying to land with Forest City Enterprises, and—"

Smooth talker, as always. Dean rambles on and Cas takes small mouthfuls of wine, observing him over the rim of his glass. The orange glow of the candle reflects in Cas' dark eyes. Dean's getting comfortable now, his mind easing as the alcohol spreads throughout his body. When he walked in, he'd half-expected to be spotted by someone he knew — friend or colleague, he's not sure which, but definitely _someone_ — and for whatever reason, that would be a _bad thing_. Like he'd be caught red-handed or something. Except there was nothing _bad_ about this. Dean's sure as hell not homophobic.

It's just that this is breaking routine. Dean rarely dates, period.  Except, here he is with a complete stranger, and a guy no less.

But Cas is different. Dean can't put his finger on _why_ , but he nevertheless _is_.

Across the table, Cas is doing that thing again where he's stroking his wine glass between his fingers, staring at Dean very _significantly_ , and Dean's done thinking about this.

_Indulge yourself._

———

They finish dinner by nine and quickly relocate to Dean's apartment. Dean had prawn and chilli linguine and Cas had the lamb. Apparently, Dean's getting Cas for dessert.

They're barely inside the apartment before Cas is pushing Dean up against the nearest flat surface — namely, the kitchen counter — until Dean has no choice but to back up onto it and take a seat. Cas is touching him with a fiery eagerness, running hands across his waist and squeezing at his thighs and hips. Cas is biting bruises into Dean's neck and Dean's mind is a complete whirl of _yes, good, please, please, finally, oh my god_ , and he can do nothing more than grip at Cas' shoulders and hold on. He's never been manhandled like this before and it's well and truly _sublime_ , like a weight is being lifted off of him; he rarely gets to lose control like this.

Cas is between his legs and pushing their groins together, and Dean lets out a small whimper. Cas seems to enjoy that sound _very_ much, because he grinds against him again, mouthing at a new spot on Dean's neck — just below his ear, _shit_ — and Dean outright moans now. His body tingles hotly when he feels Cas grin against his skin, huffing a quiet laugh.

"You liked it when I spoke Italian, didn't you?" Cas accuses, voice low, nibbling at Dean's earlobe. "I could tell."

"Not _that_ much," Dean replies stubbornly, sucking on his bottom lip, keeping himself from making any more embarrassing noises.

Cas chuckles, mouthing against Dean's ear and swirling his tongue along the outer shell. " _Ho intenzione di divertirmi con te_ ," he murmurs slowly, deliberately, hands working their way up along Dean's back and pressing against his shoulder blades. Dean shivers violently, clinging to Cas' expensive jacket.

Cas lifts up from Dean's neck to push their mouths together, tongue slipping through his parted lips. Dean can't stop the moan that comes out of him, and Cas growls, pleased. The air is hot and heavy, and Dean's arousal is pressed against his restrictive pants, pulsing with need. Dean lets Cas guide their lips together again and again; lets him breach his mouth and suck on his tongue greedily.

Something changes, though, when Cas grips onto Dean's left shoulder. It's like electricity buzzing through him, connected right where palm meets shoulder, and Dean's eyes snap open.

_I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._

Dean's not sure why that phrase pops into his head now, where the hell it even came from or why it's suddenly _important_ , but Dean's hands slip from those broad shoulders. Suddenly, he's pushing against Cas' chest, willing him to stop, and Cas' movements slow, but it's not until Dean breaks the kiss entirely that Cas opens his eyes. Cas' cheeks are rosy and hot, lips red, and _damn_ if it's not a good look on him. Dean breathes through his mouth, watching him, gauging him for a response.

"Dean?" Cas prompts, releasing Dean's shoulders in favour of placing a palm against Dean's heated cheek. "What's wrong? If you don't want this, I—"

"No, no." Dean shakes his head, lifts his own hands to take the one pressed against his cheek. He cradles it carefully, runs his fingers along Cas' knuckles, preferring to look at them than the man between his knees. "I don't know. Sorry."

"What for?" Cas tilts his head. His expression is so gentle, so understanding, like if Dean requested it, he'd get up and leave and never bother him again. But that's not what Dean wants.

"I don't know, it's just..." Dean shrugs helplessly. "Sorry, I don't know what's going on, something...weird just happened, uh..." He inhales deeply, closes his eyes, takes a moment to ponder. There's just _something_ about Cas; something that's not quite adding up. Dean's not an idiot; he doesn't believe in love at first sight or any similar sentimentality. Yet, when it comes to Cas, there's this _spark._ Of recognition, maybe; of familiarity. And Dean's got _no fucking idea why that is_.

Dean fills the space between them with his gentle breathing, willing his heart rate to calm down for a moment. "Just—Cas," he starts, meeting Cas' impossibly blue eyes. "Maybe we could slow down? For a sec? Just—I know that's really stupid, but—"

"No," Cas shushes him, easing out of Dean's grip to cup his cheeks again. He meets Dean's gaze head on, practically unblinking, and Dean's overwhelmed by the intensity of it. "Of course, Dean. Whatever you're comfortable with."

Dean's throat constricts a little. He gulps, keeps himself in check, and blurts out, "I need some water," and slips out of Cas' hold to dart for the fridge.

Cas stands by the counter patiently, watching Dean with soft eyes. Dean sips his water, sans lemon wedge, and exhales once he's gulped down the entire thing. He shakes his head, willing things to make sense again.

 _I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition._ What's that supposed to even _mean?_ Where has he heard that before? Why is it _bothering_ him so much?

Once he's placed the glass back on the counter, he lifts a hand to rub at his temple, a headache beginning to form. His mind is a mess at the moment, incapable of any rational thought. He's never asked someone to _take things slow_ , Christ. He's a grown man. This isn't right.

Except that Cas had been fine with that. And right now, that's what Dean's able to handle. Dean Smith is, under normal circumstances, able to handle anything. These circumstances, for whatever reason, are _not_ the norm, so he takes a moment to stand on the other side of the counter and process that, massaging his forehead.

Cas doesn't approach him. He continues to watch him, arms folded, looking slightly defensive but otherwise fine. He appears concerned, too, and eventually, Dean realises, he just wants to go back over to him and kiss that concern away — which is a far sappier thought than he should probably be having, but he ignores that in favour of stepping back into Cas' personal space.

"Are you okay?" Cas asks him, running a hand along Dean's bicep. From Dean's brief interactions with him, Cas is put together, made of strength and confidence as if its woven into his DNA. Here, in Dean's kitchen, he looks smaller. Wary, like Dean's going to kick him out at any moment.

"Yeah," Dean answers, sweeping a finger across Cas' cheek and pushing his dark hair behind his ears. "We'll take things slow, if you're up for it," he clarifies.

Cas smiles, curling a hand around Dean's waist. "Sounds good."

They kiss again, and it's calmer, less heated. It's _nice_ , though; soothing, like taking a cool shower after going for a run. Dean presses a hand against Cas' neck, angles his head slightly, and Cas slips his tongue in Dean's mouth again.

Slowly, after many minutes of deep French kising, Dean leans back, leaving a thin trail of saliva between their lips. Cas starts to look worried once more but then, suddenly, Dean declares, "I don't really like heaps of tongue."

 At Cas' bewildered expression, Dean rushes on, "Yeah, uh, when it comes to kissing, I mean. A little's nice, y'know? But not heaps of it." Dean chews at his bottom lip, not sure what in the _hell_ possessed him to be so honest all of a sudden. Dean's never told any of his sexual partners that; French kissing was just par for the course, really. Dean always just dealt with it and stayed silent, preferring to concentrate on his partner's needs — he's a giver, after all.

For one panicked moment, Dean wonders if Cas will take offense and leave, but he relaxes when he sees the smile growing on Cas' face. "Okay," Cas tells him, absently playing with Dean's suspenders, hooking onto them with his thumbs. "Less tongue. I can do that."

"Sorry."

Cas shakes his head, still smiling. "But, while we kiss, you should run your fingers through my hair."

Dean grins. The hand against Cas' neck trails up into his soft dark hair and, gently, Dean rakes his fingers across his scalp, toying with the locks. Cas lets out a relieved sigh, eyes half-lidded. "Yes, like that."

"I can do that," Dean parrots, grinning coyly, and Cas tugs him forward by his suspenders until they've locked lips again.

 Dean's pretty sure he's never been kissed like this. His first kiss had been back in his pre-teen years, and it had been sloppy and decidedly _un_ attractive. He'd kissed a lot more people after that, as a teenager and then as an adult. The person he'd kissed the most was probably Victor, and he was a bit of a tongue-enthusiast. Conversely, _this_ kiss was slow, tender; _romantic_ , even.

Their mouths open up to each other and they suck at one another's lips, a tiny bit of tongue here and there, and Dean keeps playing with Cas' hair, massaging at his scalp. Cas groans quietly, and the sound excites Dean, his erection having eased off when he'd been drinking his water. He lines up their pelvises and presses them together, eliciting another throaty sound from Cas. Their kisses remain slow and careful, though. Dean keeps one hand in Cas' hair and moves the other down to his hip, squeezing him and pulling him closer.

They get lost for several minutes, nipping gently at each other's mouth until Dean finally pulls away, panting, just trying to catch his breath. Cas, on the other hand, just looks eager for more, his lips swollen and wet. Dean laughs a little, overwhelmed. Cas' hair is a disaster zone.

"You're a good kisser," Cas comments, lazily tugging at Dean's suspenders.

"You're not so bad yourself," Dean teases, and Cas rolls his eyes.

"So..." Cas looks at Dean inquiringly. "What now?"

"Well," Dean begins, dragging the hand resting on Cas' hip over towards his crotch, pressing against it gently. Cas bites his lip, barely suppressing a whimper, and Dean just smirks. "If you're up for it..."

"Oh, I'm _up_ for it." He replicates the action on Dean, pushing against his hardening erection. "If you are."

Cas' voice is so damn husky it should be illegal, and Dean lets out a ragged breath when Cas presses down harder. "Yeah," Dean replies enthusiastically, beginning to tug down Cas' zipper. "Yeah, sounds good."

Time passes in a flurry of movements and groaning. As Dean's orgasm grows closer he finds himself saying, in-between desperate pants, "That twist-thing you're doing at the top? Yeah, yeah, I love that," and Cas is happy to oblige.

Cas replies, "Go faster. Yes, then—slower, yes. Change it up—between the two _—ahh_ — _!_ "

"Okay, okay, now go slow for me, _really_ slow, and now as fast as you can, c'mon, please, _oh, shit—"_

 _"Yes,_ that's good, Dean. Grip it a little looser for me, please? _Yes_ —"

"I'm edging," Dean tells him, pupils blown and his expression desperate. "Drag it out. Please, Cas?"

"Well, when you ask so _nicely_ —"

"Oh my _god!"_

When Dean gets too close, Cas' arm will freeze, squeezed around the base, and Dean will let out a distinctly high-pitched whine, trying to keep himself from falling to pieces. Cas doesn't seem interested in coming until Dean does, judging by the determined gleam in Cas' blue eyes.

Dean can feel himself about to shoot off, and suddenly he realises he's still almost fully dressed. "Wait," he gasps, "I don't—not all over these clothes—"

Cas chuckles, jerking him faster still, and says, "I'll clean you up afterwards, you idiot. Just let go." And Dean does with a loud cry, making a mess of his very black pants and Cas' very skilled hand.

It's one of _those_ orgasms — the kind that work their way through your whole body, from the tips of your toes to the muscles of your back, leaving your mind a content, blank slate. Dean's legs shake a little, and he's resting his forehead against Cas' shoulder, inhaling deeply, trying to reign himself in. Cas' fingers are kneading into neck and shoulders, and Dean puffs out little moans because it all feels so _damn_ good.

Remembering himself, he's still got Cas' erection in a loose grip, but when he goes to resume the handjob, Cas bats his hands away. "I'll take care of it," he tells him.

"I'm not useless," Dean mutters.

"No," he agrees. "I want you to do something else."

"Mm?"

Cas guides Dean's head towards his neck. "Kiss me here," he says, releasing a little sigh when Dean does so. "No hickeys," he adds, and Dean huffs against his flesh.

"Sure, Cas."

Cas is much quieter than Dean was. Dean's pressed up against Cas' side, kissing and gently sucking at his skin while Cas beats off, using Dean's come as a lubricant. His arm moves rapidly, matching the pounding pulse beneath Dean's lips, and just before he orgasms, Dean instinctively reaches up to grab at Cas' hair — and _tugs_.

His entire body rocks against Dean, lips parted on a soundless moan. Dean kisses up his neck as he winds down, mouths at that perfect jaw line of his, feeling the stubble prickle against his skin. He feels Cas' cheeks pull up in a grin, and Dean sighs when he feels his arms come up to wrap around him.

"That was fun."

"It was messy, too," Dean mutters. Cas' shoulders shake, and he's pretty sure he's being laughed at. Dean's tired and still sluggish from the alcohol he had earlier, so he can't summon the energy to be indignant about it.

"Come on." Cas pulls away and undresses them both, stripping them down quickly. Dean's down to his Calvin Klein's within seconds, Cas in a similar state of undress, wearing only a pair of black trunks. Before Dean registers what's happening, Cas is off, both sets of clothes bundled in his arms, hunting down the laundry like he's on a mission. Dean just leans against the counter, unable to move, astounded by Cas' ability to function so capably after an orgasm. It's not until Cas is tugging him down towards the couch that his brain finally catches up again. Cas pours him a glass of red and slips it into his hand, leaning back against Dean's chest and propping his bare legs up along the couch like he owns the place. In the background, Dean can hear the unmistakable sound of a washing machine filling up with water.

"So," Dean starts, breath ghosting over the top of Cas' head, "handjobs and half-naked snuggling. This how you normally do things?"

Cas huffs. "Not exactly." He takes a lengthy sip of wine. "I'm enjoying myself, though."

"Yeah." Dean slides his arm around Cas' waist, then snags the remote off the coffee table to switch on the late night news. "Same here."

———

So, yeah, it began well before the HGC Construction conference. Things have been really goddamn weird for a while now, but Dean's been so focused on putting off _weird_ in favour of focusing on his new job.

His sister, Jo, hasn't been replying to his messages. He supposes he can excuse it because she's just moved to LA, but she and Dean have always been close, and Jo's normally pedantic about responding to texts. The fact he hasn't bothered to call her to check if she's okay is pretty indicative of the kind of older brother he is.

Then there's the fact that he doesn't seem to have _any_ friends. He's got memories of being pretty popular back in his high school days, but for whatever reason, there are pretty much no contacts in his phone, his email or any of his social networking sites. Zip, nada, nobody. He hasn't got any of his previous work contacts either, only the news ones he's added since being at Sandover.

The cherry on top of the bizarre sundae that is his life, however, has to be the dreams. They're so intense sometimes that it can take him several minutes each morning to separate them from reality.

Some of them are too horrible to be real. Too violent. And some feature people he's never met: a woman with kind eyes and long, blonde hair; a man with calloused hands and a constant thirst for strong spirits; a young boy who's constantly got his head buried in textbooks and a dream for a normal life.

It's not the childhood he remembers. But it feels like it _should_ be.

That's the though that's doing loops in his mind when he stirs on Friday morning. He's momentarily disoriented, trying to puzzle out how exactly he wound up in his bed. Last thing he recalls is watching _The Colbert Report_ through droopy eyes, Cas' warm body pressed up against him. Now he's in his bedroom, and despite the change of scenery, Cas's warm body is _still_ pressed up against him. Dean smiles a little when Cas tightens his arms around him.

Dean's rubbing at his forehead, attempting to ease his headache — his alcohol tolerance is terribly low — when he notes the time on his clock and nearly shrieks.  
  
He's going to be late. Dean Smith's _never_ been late.  
  
Dean nearly dislocates his shoulder trying to wrench it out from underneath Cas' body. Cas grunts unhappily but otherwise doesn't move. Dean spends the next five minutes careening from one room to another — noting his and Cas' clothes are strung out on the clothes line perched on his balcony, which, _when did Cas get around to doing that?_ — snatching up his work clothes, his tie, his lunch and his already packed bag. No time for coffee this morning, he muses dismally.  
  
He charges back into his bedroom, desperately searching for his missing leather shoe (They're always in his wardrobe, damn it, why is he such a mess this morning?) when he realises that Cas still hasn't budged, heavy breathing filling the room like continuous white noise. Dean shakes him by the shoulder, and Cas peers at him through squinted eyes. "Dean?" His voice is small and croaky and he looks _very_ endearing like this, his hair twisted into a bird's nest, eyes blinking slowly, and despite the chaotic thoughts spinning through Dean's mind, he grins a little.  
  
"Don't you have work, man?"  
  
Cas rolls over towards Dean, curling up and drawing the bed sheets tighter around him. "Late start on Friday," he murmurs, yawning. "M'good."  
  
"Okay." Dean nods, but Cas' eyes have already fallen shut again. For a moment, he hovers uncertainly by the bed, then, feeling bold, he leans down to place a kiss upon Cas' forehead before resuming his wild search for his shoe. He doesn't fail to miss the little smile on Cas' face.  
  
By the time he reaches work (8:57, thank _Christ_ ) he's sweating and red faced, the car's AC unable to cool the fire dancing across his skin. It's not until he's clocked in and behind his desk that he takes a moment to breathe, lets those wonderful, heated moments from last night overwhelm him, and suddenly he can't stop smiling. He forgets about the dreams for now.  
  
He's typing out a letter to Mr. Shu, inviting him for a corporate lunch next week, when it occurs to him that Cas is probably still at his apartment. He takes out his phone and messages him, thumb dancing rapidly across the keypad, _I've got plenty to eat in the fridge and pantry. If you need painkillers, they're in the top draw of the bedside table, the one with the alarm clock on it. Towels are in the cupboard at the end of the hallway. Ty for last night. We should definitely do it again soon._  
  
Around noon, he gets a reply: _I'm very hungover. Called in sick to work. Would it be okay if I rested here for a little longer? I can clear out before you get home. I promise I'll leave the place tidy._  
  
Dean pauses, halfway through his peach yogurt, and entertains the idea of coming home to a Cas-shaped lump still in his bed, perhaps with a bucket on the carpet beside him, those pretty eyes peeking out at him from beneath the bed covers. Immediately, he tells him, _Stay as long as you want. I've got no other plans. I'll take care of you once I get home_. He waits nervously for a response.  
  
A few minutes later, he gets one: _I'll be here._  
  
———  
  
They spend the entire weekend together.

That evening, Dean discovers that Cas is out of bed and freshly showered. The painkillers must be doing their job because he looks as good as he always does.  
  
Dean ignores the mountain of work he's supposed to get through in favour of cooking up the bacon and eggs he purchased on the way home. "Mom always made me greasy food to ease a hangover," he explains, laughing at the way Cas wrinkles his nose at the smell. "C'mon, trust me on this. You'll be a million bucks in no time."  
  
By the time Cas has finished making his way, turtle-like, through his food, he whole-heartedly agrees with Dean's judgement.  
  
Dean lets Cas pick a movie (" _10 Things I Hate About You?"_ Cas inquires with a wicked grin, and Dean buries his flustered face in his hands, because, "Yeah, I love romcoms, okay? Shut up.") and they settle in on the couch, Dean fitted up against Cas' back, the room steadily growing darker as the sun sinks below the skyline. Dean gently runs his hand over Cas' belly, and grins when Cas releases a tiny sigh and sags against him completely.  
  
He likes this kind of domesticity. It's not something he's had much experience with before, but it's pleasant; something he could definitely get used to. Those sort of thoughts would usually intimidate him, because hey, he's a man of independence; he's never really warmed to the idea of settling down with someone. And yet, when it comes to Cas, he can see it. He wants to come home to this man and nurse him through his hangovers and cuddle up with him watching TV. That sort of life sounds good — _easy_ , even.  
  
He shouldn't be contemplating this sort of thing. He and Cas met each other, what, five days ago? Less? That's not enough time to desire these things. It's insanity, surely. Throughout his adolescence, he used to laugh at the young couples that were swearing their love was ever-lasting after only dating for a month or two, and here Dean finds himself in such an odd predicament.  
  
It's like he's known Cas for years, not days. It's ridiculous, yet...  
  
He snaps back to reality when he feels the presence of Cas' hand against his own, slyly dragging it from his stomach down towards his steadily growing erection. Dean nips at his ear playfully. His whole body shivers when he hears Cas' answering gasp.  
  
And so it goes that, when he hears Kat deliver another of her fantastic, _I'm-not-taking-any-of-your-bs_ lines, at the same time, Cas is spilling all over Dean's hand, his mouth wide open and spine arched beautifully. Dean presses kisses to the back of his neck and holds him through the aftershocks, gently squeezing his softening cock and enjoying the little moans Cas makes.

As soon as Cas attempts to return the favour, Dean bats him away and tells him he wants to wait until later. Later does eventually come to pass with Dean seated on Cas' lap, jerking himself onto Cas' well-toned chest.  
  
Saturday, for them, begins just before midday. Dean had been preparing to awaken at seven and hit up the gym, but _that_ plan goes out the window. Instead, he's awakened by Cas running a finger delicately down the side of Dean's face, as if he's some kind of precious object that must be handled with care.  
  
Dean lends him a shirt — "well, we're pretty much the same size, so..." — and they head off for an all day breakfast, Cas leisurely rubbing his foot along Dean's calf beneath the table. They take a walk afterwards, crossing through a park with a small duck pond in the centre, and Cas slips his hand into Dean's when no one's looking. Dean knits their fingers together and squeezes back, his pulse doing a happy dance.  
  
When he and Cas first met, Cas gave off this persona as if to say, _I'm cool and collected, suave and seductive_. The reality is slightly different: Cas plays with Dean's knuckles and loves light kisses against his neck and shoulders; he likes to sit with his legs across Dean's lap and practically purrs when Dean massages his scalp; and he also gets _really_ vocal if you suck on his nipples.  
  
Dean adores this person he's discovered; loves the way Cas looks with his layers peeled back. It's unbelievable how much he's learned about one person in only a handful of days, yet it's exactly what Dean can't stop thinking about — it's as if he's known Cas for years. It's absurd, but that's how he feels about it, and Dean's going to take a chance on this.  
  
Sunday afternoon arrives far too quickly for either of their liking. The moment that Cas is finished packing up and preparing to head home, Dean reaches a decision.

"Hey," he says, voice suddenly urgent. Cas is standing in the entranceway, dressed in the clothes he'd worn on Thursday night. He looks as desirable now as he did then. "Do you want to, uh..." Cas cocks his head infinitesimally, an amused smirk forming on his pink lips. "Do you want to go steady?" he finishes lamely.  
  
Cas grins, his smile slightly gummy. It's decidedly adorable. "'Go steady?'" he echoes. "Do you always ask people out with that phrase?"  
  
Dean huffs. He rubs the back of his neck, palms starting to sweat. "Boyfriend's such a...childish word, I dunno. It sounded stupid in my head."  
  
"But," Cas takes a step forward, "That's what you want, right? To be boyfriends?"  
  
Dean pauses, just for a moment, then gazes at Cas, suddenly shy. "Yeah. That's right."  
  
Cas squares his shoulders and gives him an expectant look. "Then man up and ask me. Properly."  
  
Dean stares at his own feet for a moment, fighting a goofy smile, then looks back up and meets him head on. "Do you want to be my boyfriend, Cas?"  
  
In response, Cas steps closer and plants a firm kiss on his lips. Dean's insides immediately turn to mush. Cas leans back then, eyes soft, and brushes his cheek with a knuckle. "Of course," he confirms, and Dean's shoulders slump with relief.  
  
"Awesome," Dean replies, that goofy smile spreading uncontrollably across his face now. " _Awesome_."  
  
"Your cuteness should be illegal," Cas informs him, then turns on his heel and struts out the door.  
  
"I'm not cute!" Dean calls after him, leaning around the doorframe and into the hallway.  
  
"Yes, you are."  
  
"Your ass is cuter!"  
  
"Probably true, yes, but my point remains!"  
  
Dean closes the door and rests his back against it, too giddy to do much else than stand and take a minute to breathe.  
  
———  
  
It was close to one o'clock by the time Dean got to bed that night. It wasn't a good idea to abandon all of his work over the weekend, but he can't say that he regrets it too much, all things considered.

Despite the lack of sleep, Dean gets up earlier than usual to arrive at eight in the morning, a tall cup of green blend in his hand. He knuckles down hard, not even stopping to go to the bathroom, and after three hours, he's caught up on most of his work. It's not good to be behind on his first week on the job, but fortunately for Dean, Mr. Adler has flown to another state for the next few days, leaving him practically unsupervised. Realistically, Dean could catch up on his work and spend the rest of his shift playing solitaire or chatting with Todd, one of his dark-haired co-workers who has a strong affinity with blue ties. He plans to do neither of these, however, because he _does_ want to get a promotion someday, and promotions don't come easy.

He takes a lunch break just before twelve. Dean had a particularly tiny breakfast this morning and he's too light-headed to continue working. Cas hasn't sent him any muffins today, but about halfway into his break, he receives an MMS. It's a picture of what must be Cas' desk, all rich mahogany and meticulous tidiness, with a caption that reads, _This'd be a nice place to bend you over, don't you think?_

Dean nearly chokes on his sandwich. While simultaneously trying to suppress a coughing fit, he replies, _Don't tease me while I'm at work, man. That's no fun._

Almost instantaneously, Cas messages him back, _Then you have no concept of fun._ A couple of minutes later, a picture of a crudely drawn sad face on a scrap sheet of paper appears amongst his messages. Dean laughs, nearly suffocating on his food again as a consequence.

 _Trust me, I know fun,_ Dean replies, boyish grin broadening. _That orange tie of yours? I'm going to show you some new ways to wear it._

His phone buzzes once more, and it reads, _You've perked my interests._  
  
They banter back and forth, leaving Dean uncomfortably tight in his pinstriped pants. His office doesn't have a private bathroom though, and there's no way he's jerking off inside a cubicle when somebody could walk in at any given moment. He can deal.  
  
It draws closer to finishing time and Dean finds himself checking his phone again. His and Cas' conversation had dwindled out a couple of hours ago, and instead of rereading those messages and getting himself hot and bothered under his collar again, he pulls up his one-sided correspondence with his sister. He'd sent Jo three messages over the past week and a bit, unable to quell the worry that's been simmering in the back of his mind. Figuring he's waited long enough for a reply, he hits the Call button on his phone and brings it to his ear.  
  
 _Your call could not be connected. Please check the number and try again.  
_  
Well, that's not what he'd been expecting. He tries typing out the number manually but he just gets the same message. Troubled, but knowing he has to get back to work, he pockets his phone and returns his attention to the computer.  
  
Later, once he's parked his Prius and stepping into the elevator of his apartment block, he tries calling her again, careful to double check the number before he dials. Naturally, he gets the robot voice on the other line. Perhaps Jo changed numbers, then? It's pretty weird that she wouldn't have told him, though. He doesn't remember doing anything to piss her off to warrant such behaviour. Jo isn't the kind of girl to keep her feelings a secret — if she's mad, you'll definitely hear about it.  
  
Perturbed, Dean scrolls to his parents' number instead, walking in the direction of his apartment with his eyes still focused on the small screen. The phone is actually ringing this time, which is a relief, and he hears someone picking up the phone on the other end.  
  
"Crust's Pizza. Can I get a name, please?"  
  
He frowns. It sounds like a teenage boy, and it's certainly not someone that Dean recognises. "Uh, sorry, who is this?"  
  
"You've called Crust's Pizza, my name's Anthony. Would you like to place an order?" the boy prompts.  
  
Dean stands stock still, just outside his front door, his brain coming to a halt. What the hell is going on? "Sorry, man, must have a wrong number."  
  
"Have a good evening, sir!" Anthony chirps, then immediately hangs up.  
  
This does not bode well. Dean shakes his head and unlocks the door, slipping into his home and leaving his bag on the kitchen counter. He decides he'll call his parents again later. He doesn't want to harass the employees at Crust's Pizza, after all.

The problem he faces now, since it seems that he can't reach his family by phone, is that the only other method of contact he has is by email, and his parents don't ever check their inbox. Jo's likely to respond, unless something has happened to her. Nothing's happened to her, of course. Dean's just being paranoid.  
  
But could something have happened? No, they're fine. This is all...explainable. Logical. He'll work it out. He may have to make a drive at some point, though, just to check on them, but he really doesn't have the time to do that at the moment, taking his new job into consideration. Visiting Jo is completely out of the question, given the distance, so for now, he'll settle for sending her an email and hope for a reply.  
  
He composes an email from his phone and sends it off, then heads for the shower to clear his head.  
  
 _———  
_  
When Dean checks his personal emails the next morning, he discovers that the email has been bounced back.  
  
Now he's starting to freak out a little.  
  
To take his mind off things, he asks Cas if he might be able to see him tonight, apologising as well in case he's coming on too strong. Cas tells him, _Important meeting tonight, sorry. And don't be ridiculous, I relish your attention. I'm free tomorrow night if you're interested._  
  
Dean agrees to tomorrow and then buries his head in numbers and planned proposals for the rest of the day. Once he gets home, he's extra careful with preparing his dinner, pedantically slicing zucchini and carrot into even pieces, measuring them by the length of his fingernail. Afterwards, once his belly is satisfied, he resumes his work and finds himself well and truly on top of things, taking care of pretty much everything he needed to do for the rest of the week.  
  
To ensure he doesn't have to spend too long brooding in bed, fretting about the fate of his family, he pops a sleeping pill and falls into a coma-like state within minutes.  
  
 _———_  
  
Mr. Adler greets him Wednesday morning, all bald head and large pointed nose, a broad grin fixed across his wrinkled face. Dean's a little drowsy from the pill he took last night, but he's all business once his boss steps in: chin up, shoulders back, spine straight. Mr. Adler hands him a small black box, a bit of sliver ribbon wrapped around it. "I saw your results from last week and was blown away, Smith. Absolutely spectacular! And then, when I thought you couldn't do much better than that, you surprised me again!" He extends his arms indicatively, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts. "Well done yesterday, champ. Outstanding results. Well above what I expected. That's what I like to see."  
  
Dean smiles sheepishly, tickled pink with praise. He slides the ribbon off the box and discovers a Bluetooth headset inside, a tiny device with a long, slender mic poking out. It's not a pay rise, but what did he really expect after only a week on the job? He might be a hard worker but he's also a realist.  
  
Grateful, he cradles the contraption between his fingers and looks back to Mr. Adler. "Thank you, sir."  
  
"No problemo!" He drums his knuckles against Dean's desk. "Consider it a little something to keep you motivated."  
  
"I will, sir."  
  
"Fantastic!" Mr. Adler takes his leave, whistling cheerfully on his way out. Dean spends the next few minutes Googling how to use the headset, because for reasons unbeknownst to him, Mr. Adler failed to include the instruction manual in his gift box. Once he gets it working he finds it to be unbelievably useful. Who knew how convenient it would be to have a phone permanently attached to your ear?  
  
After work, Dean's meeting with Cas, who invited him over to his place. He inputs Cas' address into his GPS and then he's off, pulling away from the curb with a quiet purr.  
  
Cas lives in an actual house, not an apartment block. It's a humble size, though, only big enough to fit probably two bedrooms. The garage door is open and Dean can see the red Lexus parked within, the same one that he saw the insides of after they'd finished eating at La Cucina. There's a rose garden between the garage and the front door, a mixture of whites, reds and pale pinks, and it's clearly well tended to. Dean wonders if Cas gardens in his spare time, or if he hires someone to take care of it while he's at work.  
  
The front door swings open and Cas steps out, looking dapper as usual. He's donned in a long-sleeved, navy business shirt, plain black pants and a pair of white slippers. He's sans tie, which makes Dean quirk a brow at him.  
  
"No orange tie?" Dean says with a smirk, once Cas has closed most of the distance between them.  
  
"Later," he promises, and tugs him inside.  
  
Cas offers to get takeaway from down the road but Dean insists that he cooks for them. Cas is helpless in the kitchen but Dean considers himself a bit of master chef, and hey, it's been a while since he cooked for two. He rustles up all of the vegetables and noodles he can find and puts a meal together with a heavy helping of satay sauce. Cas half-moans after each mouthful, causing red to creep up Dean's neck.

When they go to bed together that evening, they take things slowly, just like last time. Hands smooth over clothed bodies, gently exploring. Eventually, Dean gets sick of the barrier between them and starts unbuttoning Cas' shirt, becoming frustrated quickly by it and yanking it over his head when it's only halfway undone. It gets tangled in the process, and by the time Cas is well and truly shirtless, he's flushed from laughing so hard. Dean leans down and sucks at one of his nipples, and Cas' laughter is cut off by a shocked whine, hips thrusting upwards. Dean smirks and licks at the nub, content.

"Pinch the other one?" Cas pleads, a hand coming up to squeeze at Dean's arm. Dean obliges, giving the second nipple a few tugs, his erection growing harder with each groan he hears.

There's a strange openness they have with each other like this, when there are no corporate monkeys to impress and a dark bedroom for them to hide away in. When Cas slides a hand over Dean's ass, Dean growls, "Grab it, man, don't be gentle," and he bucks enthusiastically when Cas does so. Cas will remind him, "Play with my hair?" and Dean tangles his fingers into those thick locks, running fingertips along his scalp. Dean will pull away and say, "Uh, I don't really like tongue, but, uh...you should totally bite me," which seems to be something Cas is _very_ keen on.

When Dean's face is hovering above Cas' crotch, he confesses quietly, "I haven't done this in a while. Don't...don't thrust too hard, okay?" and Cas nods encouragingly, holding onto one of Dean's hands while the other works his pants open. His erection slips out, curved up towards Cas' belly. "Okay," Dean says, more to himself, and Cas gives his hand a squeeze.

Dean smiles— _yeah, it's all good_ — then takes a moment to lick experimentally at the head. Cas is freshly showered so he smells pretty good, and he's also circumcised, which Dean thinks is kind of cool. He's never gone down a circumcised cock before and Cas' has a nice shape to it, possibly a bit longer than Dean's. He fits his mouth over the head and sinks down a bit, flattening his tongue against the underside, eyes open and watching Cas' reactions. Cas' face is angled back towards the headboard, neck exposed and enticing, and Dean's erection pulsate when he feels Cas' thighs come up on either side of his head.

Gaining confidence now, Dean starts to move up and down, keeping his mouth moist and loose, dragging his tongue along with each movement. Pretty little sighs fall from Cas' lips, a delightful harmony that tickles Dean's eardrums. At one point, Dean tries to deep throat him, and has to pull back and reign in his gag reflex. He closes his eyes, embarrassed, but then he hears Cas sit up and place his hands on either side of his face. His palms are cool against his heated skin.

"It's okay," Cas tells him, massaging Dean's temples with his thumbs. "It feels good when you just suck at the head."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. You don't have to try and impress me, Dean. It all feels really good." Dean looks at Cas and is met with the most ridiculously _understanding_ expression, despite the fact they've both got dark red hard-ons between them. Cas gives him a peck on the nose and then lies back down, spreading his legs and murmuring, "When you're ready."

Dean resumes and Cas talks some more, suggesting ways in which he can change it up. "Suck hard for me. At the hea— _yes, Dean._ That's _good._ Can you...can you flick your tongue from side to side, along the bottom? I— _ohhh_ —"

He's enjoying himself now, probably because it's nice to have Cas tell him what to do, but also because it's nice to know that he's making Cas come undone like this. Cas, when he's in a suit, is all self-assured and down to business, and yet, Dean's got him here, toes curling into the sheets and thighs pressed tight against Dean's skull. It's a wonderful contrast.

When Cas is about to orgasm, Dean replaces his lips with his hand and works him furiously, his saliva working as a perfect lubricant. Cas turns his head towards the pillow and bites down, spurting semen all over his stomach, and Dean whispers, awestruck, " _Damn,_ you're so gorgeous."

Immediately after, Cas yanks him up to crush their lips together, wrapping his strong arms around Dean's back and holding him there until he's done leaving Dean breathless.

They don't end up using Cas' orange tie. Dean brings it up afterwards, once he's basking in his own post-orgasm glory, Cas curled on top of his chest. Cas just chuckles, drawing a circle on Dean's chest with his finger. "There's always next time."

_———_

The ceiling is cast in a grey light, shining in through the half-closed blinds. Dean stares ahead, mind blank, hands resting on his belly. He lets out a quiet exhale.

Sometimes, when he wakes up from one of his violent dreams, he feels unbearably claustrophobic. Dean often dreams of waking up inside a coffin, only able to see by the dim glow of a cigarette lighter. He dreams of kicking out at the top of the coffin, putting cracks through the timber, and feeling the spray of dirt on his face. Normally, he wakes up before he finds out how it ends: whether he escapes or runs out of oxygen.

Tonight, he dreamt of breaking out; finally pulling himself free from the ground, gasping, muscles aching. He dreamt of being in the middle of the woods, all of the neighbouring trees lying on their trunks, as if they'd been bowled over. He dreamt of being alive, against all odds.

He feels strange, thinking about it. Reflective. He's never had to deal with a situation like that at any point in his life - like all of the other scenarios his mind concocts during his REM cycle - so he's got no idea why he keeps dreaming about something so terrifying. He supposes that dreams aren't meant to be taken literally, yet he just can't shake this kind of... _deja vu_ he experiences every time he falls asleep.

He's never been buried alive, but a part of him swears that dream actually happened in the real world; that it's a part of his history, as real as he is. But that just can't be.  
  
Beside him, Cas shifts, causing the bed to rock slightly. He's curled towards Dean, who watches him now, taking in those dark eyelashes and slightly parted lips.

After a few minutes, Cas stirs, blinking slowly. It's still way too early for either them to be awake, but here they are, lying side by side in the darkness, eyes fixed on one another.

"Dean," Cas murmurs, voice rough. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Dean smiles, a little surprised by the question. He shakes his head. "Nah, it was a good dream."

Cas nods, eyes falling shut. "I think I was dreaming. About flying."

"Yeah?" he brushes hair from Cas' forehead. "Flying, huh? Did you have big wings or something? Like an eagle?"

Cas frowns, eyes still closed. "No, it's—hard to explain. Not wings, but definitely...something like wings. Two things at once, maybe. Simultaneously. I think. I don't know."  
  
Dean huffs a laugh. "You're not making any sense, Cas."  
  
"The _dream_ didn't make any sense," he grumbles.  
  
They fall into silence then, Dean listening to Cas' deep breathing. He scratches at his stomach and then hooks an arm behind his head. "Hey, why do people call you Cas, anyway?" the question directed towards the ceiling.  
  
"My middle name is Castiel."  
  
"Oh. That's a pretty weird name."  
  
"Tell me about it," Cas replies, cuddling closer, wrapping his hand around Dean's forearm. "Apparently my father wanted it to be my first name. It's the name of an angel, you know."  
  
"Really?" Dean tears his gaze away from the ceiling, rolling towards Cas. "Was your dad religious or something?"  
  
"I'm not sure," Cas says, his voice shifting into something peculiar. "I never really knew my father. He left my mom when I was young."  
  
Dean frowns, reaching out to run a thumb along Cas' hairline. Eyelids slide open, watching him. "I'm sorry," Dean murmurs.  
  
Cas shakes his head and squeezes Dean's arm. "It was a long time ago."  
  
"Can I ask..." Dean trails off, uncertain. "Can I ask why he left?"  
  
Cas smiles at him. It's a sad smile. "I don't know. He just did."

\---

There are a whole bunch of new workers floating around the office building. They're cubicle workers, stuck in a crappy customer service role, the kind that requires them to actually wear a specific uniform. It's an unseemly colour— _vomit yellow_ , in Dean's opinion.  
  
He's aware that these newbies had their first shift the same day that he started, but he hasn't had much interaction with them. Mr. Adler was in charge of hiring them and organising their orientation during the first week, so now it's Dean's turn to meet with them all and have a bit of a chat.  
  
It's not like he's nervous or anything. He's quite the public speaker, after all, but he's not really sure what his role is in all of this. What is he even in charge of when it comes to these people? Is he their manager or something? Mr. Adler wasn't exactly clear on that. Just slapped him on the back, said, "Go meet the fresh blood!" and Dean awkwardly trotted off down the hallway.  
  
He finds the rookies all standing around in a corner of the customer relations room, the rest of the room buzzing with phones ringing and the loud voices of the employees taking the calls. There are seven rookies, mostly men, looking either bored or anxious. Dean sweeps a hand through his hair, rolls his shoulders, and gets started.

He introduces himself, explains his role in the company, then asks them a few questions: namely, "Do you have any questions?" One of them, a middle-aged woman, inquires about the length of lunch breaks.

It's while he's answering her that he locks eyes with one of the other employees, a man who's a good foot taller than everybody else, and he stops, his mind at a complete standstill.  
  
 _Flashes of bright purples and blues, bursting into the night sky, sparks raining down upon their heads. "Dad would never let us do anything like this. Thanks, Dean. This is great!"_  
  
Shaking himself slightly, he resumes his sentence, pointedly ignoring the inquisitive stare the tall man gives him. "I'm happy to help, so if you get stuck, come find me. Room 704. Hope you like it here," Dean finishes, then hurries off at such a speed that his jacket billows behind him.

There'd been this moment of _recognition_ , like he's seen that face before _—_ the brown eyes, the ridiculous haircut (Or lack thereof), the gangly limbs and the puppy dog look. He can't put a name to the face though, and the guy wasn't wearing a name badge.

Back in the safety of his office, he clicks the door shut behind him and smooths a hand through his hair. "For the love of god," he grumbles, pulling up one of the spreadsheets on his desktop and getting back to work.  
  
 _———_  
  
 _Fourth of July, 1996._ The date keeps sticking out to him, like someone's embedded it into the side of his skull. He'll catch himself pondering the date, thinking about those numbers, even scribbling them onto a corner of his notepad; wondering whether they're supposed to _mean_ something.

He remembers fireworks. _Fireworks_ , of all things, and a scrawny pre-teen with a big grin, arms raised to the sky.

The weirdness escalates on his next outing with Cas. It's at the end of the week, just after they finished dinner at Mako's (Dean's been exposed to Cas' fluent Japanese all night, which has only made him more eager to tear his clothes off). He's in the driver's seat, heading back to Cas' house. Cas has located some radio station playing obnoxious metal music, and it's currently pounding into his eardrums while Cas sits serenely beside him, hand resting on Dean's' thigh. Dean puts up with it begrudgingly, although Cas assures him he'll be rewarded for his tolerance.  
  
When Dean turns into Cas' street, a streak of fur darts from out of the bushes. Dean yelps and shoves his foot on the break, but he feels a distinct bump move beneath both sets of tyres. They come to a standstill a few metres from the driveway, Dean's heavy breathing mostly drowned out by the loud music.  
  
Freaked out, Dean smacks the volume button and they fall into a tense silence, car still humming around them. Cas, whose hands had flown up to the handle above his door, reaches across and touches his shoulder gently. Dean resists the urge to shrug him off, blood pumping furiously beneath his skin.  
  
"Dean?" Cas murmurs.  
  
"Y-yeah?"  
  
"Do you want me to go check? You can wait here, if you'd like."  
  
"No, no," Dean shakes his head, already opening his door. He's not a child. He can handle it.  
  
Cas follows him out of the Prius towards the small, crumpled body lying immobile on the tar. Dean crouches down, limbs shaking, and touches a finger to the animal's neck. It's a tabby cat, its dark fur decorated with even darker stripes. There's also a little bit of blood around one of its hind legs, which definitely looks broken. Its chest has sunken and not even the cat's tail is twitching. There's no collar so Dean feels around for a pulse, although he's not even sure he's prodding in the right area. He's no expert when it comes to animals.  
  
His breathing's flowing more rapidly now. Dean can feel himself slowly unravelling, heart rate escalating. He's pretty sure the cat's dead.  
  
Huh. He actually _killed_ something.  
  
"Dean," Cas' voice comes for beside him, calm and collected. "Dean, let me see."  
  
"It's dead, Cas," Dean informs him, his words stilted. His eyes are dry but he's very possibly having a panic attack. "It's dead, damn it."  
  
Cas lays a hand across the animal's chest, probably to see if it's breathing. "Dean, it's not your fault."  
  
"Of course it is!" he snaps, rising to his feet, hands coming up to clasp at the back of his head. He doesn't mean to direct his anger at Cas. His legs won't stop trembling.  
  
"Son of a bitch," he exhales. Then, like a tidal wave, self-loathing hits him from nowhere and starts pouring from his mouth, "Everything I do, I screw up. I hurt everyone around me, _all the time_. I can't do anything _right._ "He kicks out at a pebble on the tar, sending it hurtling into a neighbour's front lawn. "I'm a freakin' screw up."

"Dean—"

"I don't deserve _any_ of the good in my life." He weaves his fingers into his hair, tugging harshly, forcing tears to the corners of his eyes. "Don't deserve my job, my apartment, my car, my clothes, none of it—"

"Dean!" Cas' panicked voice cuts through his venting, bringing him back. Dean's got no idea where all of that hatred came from; can barely understand _what's_ happening at the moment. He's wildly out of control.

But when he turns back to Cas, it's as if time stops. There's a strange, blue-white light emanating from Cas' palm, eclipsing the feline's mangled body. Cas is frozen in place, face looking horrified but also _curious_ , as the light starts to ooze into the animal's wounds, inflating its ribcage and popping its broken leg back into a natural position.

One of the cat's ears twitch. Dean can't take his eyes away, transfixed and terrified, even as the light begins to recede. Once the light's vanished completely, the entire area seems so much darker now, like Cas' hand took the moonlight with it. One of the street lamps has started flickering.

Cas, normally so strong and put together, sinks back onto the pavement, unable to support himself any longer. Dean wants to go to him, see if he's all right, but his knees refuse to bend. They say nothing as the cat lifts its head, peering at Cas inquisitively. They say nothing as its tail sweeps across pavement, dragging through the little pool of blood on the ground.

The cat slowly rises onto all four legs, stretching leisurely, then approaches Cas. It licks one of his knuckles; like it's _thanking_ him.

"Dean..." Cas' voice is almost impossible to hear. He sounds distant, as if he's talking in his sleep.

A weird kind of instinct takes over Dean then — he feels, keenly, the urge to hide away, to make sure nobody sees any of this. Brain switching into gear, he guides Cas back into the car, who's scooped the cat to his chest. Cas barely blinks as Dean quickly parks in front of Cas' garage, hardly responds to being tugged towards the front door. Fishing the keys out of Cas' pocket, Dean lets them in, turning on the living room light. The cat stares at him, looking vaguely interested by the proceedings.

Once Cas is seated on the couch, Dean fills two glasses of water from the kitchen. He returns to Cas to find him exactly the same: mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, pupils small, back rigid. The cat's sniffing along Cas' arm. Dean takes a deep gulp of water, willing himself to keep calm.  
  
"Hey," he ventures cautiously. "You doing okay?"  
  
Cas inclines his head slightly. Whether it's an affirmation or not, Dean's not sure. "I don't know what just happened."  
  
"You're telling me." When Cas says nothing more, Dean continues, "Hate to state the obvious here, but you just brought a kitty cat back from the brink."  
  
"Yes, which is..." He pauses, considering. He still seems dazed. "...Baffling, to say the least."  
  
Dean huffs, "Yeah, no kidding." He smears perspiration with his thumb against the second glass of water, then offers it to Cas. "Come on. Have a sip."  
  
As if on auto-pilot, Cas takes the glass from Dean, then stares blankly into it. A moment later, he angles the glass towards the cat, still seated on his lap, and the animal starts to lap at the water, pleased with Cas' decision. Dean sighs.  
  
"So...you've never used any magic healing powers before?"  
  
Cas shakes his head definitely this time. "No, nothing like that." His gaze remains fixated on the cat. "Of all the peculiar things that have happened to me in my life, this certainly takes the cake."  
  
Dean frowns. Cas fiddles with his cufflink. "Have there been _other_ peculiar things?"  
  
Cas looks up at Dean briefly and then, just as quickly, focuses his attention elsewhere. "Yes."  
  
"Like...?"  
  
Cas takes a deep breath. "I can speak any language I've ever heard of. English, Italian, French, Spanish, Japanese, Swedish, virtually any language, I know it." He gives up on counting them on his fingers. "It takes me under twenty-four hours to learn a language. Grammar, intonation, accent, etcetera. When I was six, I was able to competently read a Chinese newspaper, even though I'd only been exposed to handful of Mandarin sentences that I overheard in a takeaway shop." His eyes are wide; somewhat crazed.  
  
"Cas, that's impossible." Then again, the guy just resurrected a feline.  
  
"Despite all of these languages I know, I always have dreams in a language I don't understand. Not a made up language, necessarily, but an _ancient_ one, I think. But that's not all," he says, running fingers agitatedly through his hair. "I've never been sick. Ever."  
  
"Weren't you hungover just the other day?"  
  
Cas shrinks back a little, sheepish. "I...may have lied about that. I figured I could maybe spend a little more time with you if I feigned sickness. Sorry."  
  
Dean waves off the apology. The confession probably would have been endearing if their situation wasn't so messed up at the moment.  
  
"I've never had a cold," Cas goes on, like now he's started talking, he just can't stop. Dean supposes that this could very well be the first time that Cas has told anyone about this stuff. "Never needed any medication. I don't really need to...sleep much? I mean, I honestly think I could live quite easily if I never slept at all."

Dean's sufficiently freaked out now so he gets to his feet and starts pacing, Cas' eyes following his movements. "I'm sorry. This is too much. You probably don't believe half of this."

"No, it's—" Dean rakes a palm across his chin. "I _do_ believe you. All of it, I mean. Which is ten types of crazy, mind you, but it makes sense."

"Sense?" Cas laughs, slightly delirious. "Nothing about this is logical, Dean."

"No," Dean sighs. "Definitely not, but it seems _right_. I don't—I don't know why, but..." He turns to Cas, arms folded firmly across his chest. Cas meets his gaze, absently running fingertips across the cat's fur. It appears to be dozing. "You, with the whole Superhuman-Sleepless-Multiple-Languages thing. That fits you to a T." Dean frowns, considering his words. "Again, all kinds of crazy."

"Right. Crazy."

"And yet—"

"Yes." Cas plays with the cat's ears absent-mindedly. "And yet."

Dean rubs his eyes, willing his headache away. He checks his phone and discovers that it's close to ten-thirty, which isn't exactly _late_ , but this supernatural stuff is not something he's capable of handling at this hour. "Are you..." Dean gestures towards him. "...Okay? Like, did that whole resurrection thing, like...wear you out?"

Cas rolls his shoulders, as if testing his body. "Somewhat. I mean, I feel that I should probably lie down soon, but aside from that..." He shrugs vaguely.

Dean nods. "Okay, well, I might, uh—head off then." He scratches the back of his neck. "If that's all right, I mean."

"Oh." Cas looks put out for a moment, then shakes himself. "Yes, of course. You're freaked out, I understand."

"A little, yeah," Dean chuckles. He feels guilty, however, for wanting to abandon Cas likes this. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Cas gets to his feet, the cat remaining a fluffy heap in Cas' arms. There's fur spread out all over Cas' dark suit. "Absolutely, yes."

The front door's only a few steps away, but Dean takes his time heading out. He just doesn't feel right about this. Cas is probably _way_ more freaked out than Dean is, after all, but Dean's headache is getting worse and he'd probably feel better if he went home and pulled out his foot spa.

Just as he steps outside, Cas calls to him. He turns, taking in Cas' dishevelled appearance. He somehow looks smaller, far younger than he actually is. "We'll talk soon, right?" he says, and it's the most vulnerable thing that's ever left his lips.

Dean presses a kiss to his forehead, then ventures lower to find his mouth. The kiss is chaste but it lingers for a long time, and Dean hopes that he can breathe as much reassurance into Cas as he needs.

Once they part, Dean leans their foreheads together. Warmth passes between them, a shield against the cool night air. "There's no one else I'd rather talk to," Dean tells him, and Cas grins, the skin crinkling around his eyes.

"You're so cheesy," Cas informs him, playful. "And I love it."

"It's one of my many talents," Dean says, voice smooth and deep, and Cas chuckles. It's a relief for them both. Dean directs his attention towards the cat, who's staring at Dean with wide, yellowish eyes. "You gonna keep him?"

"Depends. I'll take him to the vet tomorrow. He might have a microchip."

"You look like the kinda guy who'd hoard cats," Dean teases. "Which is a shame, 'cause I'm kind of allergic."

"Allergic?" Cas scoffs. "If it comes down to you or the cat, you're out. Sorry, that's just how it is."

"So heartless!" Dean kisses him again then heads towards his car, waving as he goes.

Once behind the wheel, he becomes more aware of his sweaty palms, the slight tremor in his legs, and the skull-splitting headache behind his eyes. He's feeling surprisingly _okay_ , though: Cas' superhuman abilities are just enough of his many quirks, right?

Dean wants to slap himself. A _quirk_. The power to heal and to go without sleep is a _quirk_. Dean Smith, you are completely _gone_ on this guy. Head over heels, one hundred percent, _gone_.

These are, naturally, all problems for another day. For now, he's going to go to his apartment, down some aspirin, and relax.

_———_

There are too many worries buzzing around his head. It's getting harder and harder to shake off, and Dean's concerned that it's going to start affecting his work.

Despite his body's protests, on Monday morning he gets up an hour earlier than usual, putting on his favourite striped shirt and red suspenders combo to give him that extra self-esteem boost. He nearly gets a heart attack when he turns the car on that morning _—_ Cas' poor taste in music greets him, and he hurriedly makes the switch to his favourite morning news program.

The day passes by fairly smoothly. He packed himself a salad this morning, and while he's chomping it down he sends a text message to Cas, checking to see if he's feeling better. Dean also takes an opportunity to check over his planner, mentally calculating if he can get enough work done by the weekend to make the drive to his parents' place. It's still pretty early on in the week, so if he knuckles down over the next couple of days, he should be able to head out Saturday morning.

Jotting his plan down, there's a feeling of unease that settles over him, probably because of the _finality_ of his decision. Fortunately, his anxiety is blessedly interrupted by Cas' SMS, which reads, _Doing fine. No microchip in the cat. I shall name him Buttons_.

He doesn't make plans to see Cas that night, figuring they could probably do with a little space. While Dean's not having a breakdown over it, Cas' apparent supernatural abilities are pretty freaking terrifying. A break will give time to adjust.

By the end of the day, he's feeling pretty good, if not a little weary. He hops into the elevator and pulls out his phone, noting the MMS he received from Cas which is _very likely_ not safe for work. He smirks a little; he'll open it once he's in the car.

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Dean feels like he's being watched. Glancing up, the outrageously tall employee from the other day is standing there, gawking at him.

"Do I know you?" the man blurts suddenly. From outside work, he means.

 _Fourth of July, 1996_ comes to mind, but Dean resolutely ignores that thought. "I don't think so."

"I'm sorry, man, you just look _really_ familiar," he insists, eyes tracking up and down Dean's body like he's some sort of interesting exhibit on display.

Blessedly, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. "Save it for the health club, pal," he says shortly, then marches resolutely away from any and all weird things.

_———_

Naturally, things get stranger. And bloodier, apparently.

The following afternoon, Dean finds himself in an elevator with the tall guy again. There are a number of other employees in there with them, however, so Dean thinks he'll be fine - and, well, _nope_ , they're all getting off at one floor, leaving him and tall guy alone together. Perfect.

He can feel the guys eyes raking over him again, and just when Dean's considering getting off on a different level than he had planned, the man speaks, "Can I ask you a question?"

 _Christ_ , is this guy trying to suss out whether he'd be interested in dating him or something? Probably easier to let him down with the whole 'heterosexuality' excuse. "Look, man, I told you, I'm not into the, uh-"

"Oh dude, come on, I'm not either. I just wanna ask you one question."

 _Take me anywhere but here_ , Dean prays to no one, glancing around the elevator. The floor levels are passing by at an unbearably slow rate. "Sure," he replies eventually.

"What do you think about ghosts?" the man asks him, like that's the kind of conversation that complete strangers have all the time.

The next thirty seconds are probably the most uncomfortable seconds Dean's ever experienced, and he finally exits the elevator feeling like he just had a conversation with someone from another galaxy.

Talking about ghosts, vampires...it's all complete _nonsense_. But he also asked Dean about _weird dreams_ specifically, which is...well, it's a little unnerving to say the least.

The following morning, Dean stands by as a corpse gets wheeled past him. The body of Paul Dunbar is tucked inside a body bag, the end result of a particularly gruesome suicide involving the break room's microwave. Dean fights back the urge to vomit.

Across the room, the tall man is staring at him. For a second, they lock eyes; Dean considers their bizarre conversation from yesterday, promptly freaks out, and returns to his office.

Barely three hours after that incident, Dean witnesses a man have a complete mental breakdown and stab himself in the throat with a pencil, which, _what?_ Dean had called him in because the guy _— Ian —_ had made some minute error, and Ian wound up fleeing to the bathrooms in a panic, a sharp pencil wielded in his fist. The taps and soap dispensers in there had apparently lost their absolute shit, because water and bubbles overflowed onto the tiles, joining the growing puddle of blood on the floor.

Numbly, Dean called 911, and the longer his gaze remained fixated on the horrified expression on Ian's paper white face, the slower time seemed to pass; everything was in slow motion by the time the police and ambulance arrived.

While giving his statement to an officer, he spots that same tall man again, who's currently resembling the epitome of concern, watching Dean.

When the end of the one of the most horrific days of Dean's life comes around, he calls through to Tech Support.

"Tech support, this is Sam," the tall man answers.

So that's his name, then.

_———_

After a whirlwind adventure that involved breaking into Sandover afterhours and sending a vengeful ghost onto the next life, Dean can sufficiently say his heart is _racing_. He's _never_ felt more alive than he does tonight; fighting side-by-side with Sam Wesson felt like coming home.

The two of them head to Dean's office for a chance to sit down and breathe. "Man, I gotta tell you, I've never had so much fun in my life," Dean confesses. Briefly, he considers that he may just be a tad psychotic. Sam's shirt is covered in blood splatter, evidence of the kind of night they'd had.

"Me neither." Then Sam goes and says something stupid: "We should keep doing this."

And suddenly Dean feels strangely boxed in. The fun ( _Fun?_ They almost died!) of the night was completely sucked out of him, leaving Dean hollow and adrift. Sam suggests hitting the road, doing this hunting stuff full time, and Dean tells him no, over and over, poking holes in all of his suggestions. Because, well, what kind of life would that be? No _real_ work means cheap, fatty takeaway and zero health insurance. Dean probably wouldn't be able to survive without his detox, and what about Cas? Then again, maybe Cas would want to come with him. The power to heal might be useful if they're going to be risking their lives on a daily basis.

No. Absolutely not. "That's insane."

"Is it? Think about it for a second!" Sam gesticulates wildly. "What if we think this is our life, but it's not?"

Dean shakes his head. "I'm sorry, but-"

"Look, all I know is this isn't who we're supposed to be."

And, okay, Dean barely knows this guy. Sam doesn't get to speak on his behalf. "No. I'm Dean Smith, okay? Director of Sales and Marketing. I went to Stanford. My father's name is Bob, my mother's name is Ellen, and my sister's name is Jo." None of those names feel right passing through his lips.

"When was the last time you talked to them? To any of them?"

A chill runs down Dean's spine. He resolutely ignores it, stamping down any of the dread that's creeping over him.

"I only moved here 'cause I just broke up with my fiancée, Madison," Sam surges on, and there's something about that name, Madison, that rings a bell. "But I called her number and I got a damn animal hospital!"

This is starting to hit a little too close to home. A wedge has sunk itself deep into Dean's chest, making it hard to maintain his cool. He retorts, "Are you trying to say that my family isn't real? Huh? That we've been injected with fake memories? Come on." The absurdity of this conversation is actually too much, and Dean's had more than enough crap to deal with this past week, not to mention tonight's highlights.

Sam takes a deep breath. "All I know is, I got this feeling in my gut. And I know _—_ I know that deep down, you gotta be feeling it too. We're supposed to be something else. You're not just some corporate douchebag. This isn't you. I know you."

Dean stares at him, expression hardening. "Know me? You don't know me, pal. You should go."

Reluctantly, Sam shuffles out. Dean wonders, hysterically, if people will stop him on the streets and question him about the blood on his shirt; whether Sam'll be locked up for the night while the cops investigate a potential murder. Where _did_ that blood come from, anyway? There must be a dead body lying around somewhere, which is going to make tomorrow pretty freaking awkward.

Dean starts pacing around his office, clutching his hands tightly behind his back. His hands have a slight tremor running through them and his palms won't stop sweating. He feels sick: a combination of post-adrenaline and lack of food. He pulls out his favourite detox from the mini-fridge next to his desk, figuring it's best to put something in his stomach, but all it does is cause his stomach to cramp up.

He's too agitated to sit down or to sleep, but he shouldn't hang around much longer. He hates to think what kind of footage the security cameras managed to capture, and if anyone finds him hanging around his office after midnight, it's only going to make him look worse.

Momentarily, he entertains the idea of erasing the tapes from the security cameras, but then he remembers, _I might be able to salt and burn a ghost's remains, but tampering with camera footage?_ Dean shakes himself. What has gotten into him? He doesn't no shit about cameras.

He makes it to his Prius without any hassle, even manages to escape without stumbling across any dead bodies. Sam's well and truly gone, and Dean thinks, bitterly, _Good riddance_. Where does that guy get off on telling him what kind of man he is? He's no 'corporate douchebag'. _Sam's_ the douchebag, between the two of them.

Dean's hands don't stop shaking the entire way home. He leaves moisture on the steering wheel, something he'll have to wipe down tomorrow when he gets the chance. Whenever he has to stop at a set of traffic lights, he keeps checking in his rear-view mirror and along the footpaths, nearly jumping out of his skin when he mistakes a stop sign for some sort of preternatural entity. Oxygen enters his mouth unevenly _—_ sometimes long and deep breaths, other times quick and barely entering his lungs.

He pulls up to this apartment block just as the clock on his dashboard ticks over to three am. He sits there, engine idling for a moment, then decides to pull out his phone.

There's two missed calls and one text message, which was sent around ten _—_ all of them are from Cas.   _Are you alright?_ the text message says, short and simple, but Dean stares at those words for so long his vision starts to go out of focus.

 _No_ , he's not alright, actually. How could somebody shake something like that off? His body is exhausted but his brain is constantly whirling, chugging through all of this new information: Ghosts are real. Other monsters are probably real, too. He'll be lucky if he ever sleeps again, and a guy he barely knows who goes by the name Sam Wesson has made him question his entire existence.

As if receiving revelation, Dean realises that Cas apparently doesn't require sleep, so he pushes the car into drive, pulling away from the kerb so quickly that the wheels screech black marks into the asphalt.

Soon Dean finds himself standing outside Cas' front door. There's a chill in the air but Dean barely feels it. He lifts his phone to his hear, listening through several rings before Cas answers, "Dean?"

"Hey. I'm outside, uh. Would you mind letting me in?"

"What _—_? Of course, yes." He hangs up. Dean stands still, listening to the empty dial tone.

For a moment, it's as if he's been sucked into some kind of timeless vacuum, where an eternity passes from when Cas ended the call. Once Cas appears in the doorway, however, the world catches up all at once, and Dean practically collapses on top of him.

"D-Dean? What's going on?"

"...Rough night," Dean breathes into Cas' shoulders, arms settling around his waist and pulling him in close. He sinks into the warmth radiating from Cas' chest, a small haven. Cas is donned in pajamas and they're pleasantly soft against Dean's face, smelling faintly of fabric conditioner. _Lavender_ , he realises. Dean's pretty sure he's used the same one before.

"Dean...what happened?"

He doesn't answer that. "Missed you."

Above him, he hears Cas huff. "I missed you too, Dean, but you're starting to really scare me now."

Dean pulls away from the sanctity of Cas' arms, eyes travelling up and down before resting on his face, searching. Cas looks wide awake, no traces of sleep deprivation, and the way his eyes seem to glow in the darkness seems ethereal. He never really noticed that otherworldly aura before. Huh.

"Dean?"

He closes the space between them, pressing a lingering kiss to Cas' cheek, feeling little stubbly pinpricks. He moves on instinct, lips painting a roadmap across his skin, up to the ridge of Cas' brow down to the dip below Cas' mouth, eventually taking Cas' bottom lip and sucking gently.

"Dean, what's _—_?"

His lips completely cover Cas', finding his tongue and gently playing with it. Finally, the buzzing in Dean's head dies down, quietens to the kind of white noise a waterfall might make. He's lighter, like he could float off the planet. He reacts with a shiver when Cas cups the side of his face, thumbs stroking along his cheekbones. He bites back a whimper when Cas' gently pushes their faces apart, struggles to meet Cas' gaze.

For reasons unbeknownst to him, tears form in the corners of Dean's eyes. They don't fall, but they linger there. Cas notices, of course. "Is this...is this a reaction to the cat hair on my clothes?"

Dean snorts. He attempts to brush the tears from his eyes, but Cas' hands are still on his face, blocking him. "No, I _—_ I don't know what this is, Cas."

Cas frowns, and even his own eyes are looking a little misty now. "What do you mean? Has something happened?"

"I don't know, Cas. I don't know what's going on anymore." Dean looks at him pleadingly. "Can I come in?"

Wordlessly, Cas takes him by the hand and guides him inside. They pass through the living room and the study, and in the darkness, Dean can make out the furry shape of Buttons, curled up on the lounge. The width of the hallways, the high rise of the ceilings, the sounds their footsteps make, Cas' bare feet a contrast to the clip-clop of Dean's shoes _—_ it all feels so surreal now.

Once they're in Cas' bedroom, Dean notes that the only light on in the entire house is coming from a lamp on his bedside, the room lit in an orange glow. Cas deposits Dean on the king-sized bed, one of Cas' more luxurious items. There are an outrageous number of cushions on it, to a degree that Dean wonders how Cas manages to fit on here at all.

 _I'm gonna miss this_ , Dean thinks suddenly, and he's got no idea where that thought came from. Why would he miss something that's not going away?

"I'll be back," Cas murmurs, brushing lips against Dean's temple.

While Cas is gone, Dean leans back against the stack of cushions. He hadn't realised how much pain his back was in, or how much his feet were aching. He wants to remove his shoes but now that he's lying down he's pretty sure he won't be able to move ever again.

Mercifully, Cas returns with a glass of juice, and once he hands it to Dean, he starts untying Dean's laces. "Cas, no, you don't have to do that," he says, but his heart's really not in it.

Cas smiles a little. "It's perfectly alright."

Dean almost moans once his toes are free, and he wiggles them in celebration. Cas plants a soft kiss to Dean's knee.

For a little while, Cas tries to pry information out of Dean, but each time Dean tries to explain, his throat clamps up. Maybe it's because recounting what happened will confirm that it was real; it wasn't one of his more insane dreams. He's sure that Cas will believe him, given his own encounter with the supernatural recently, but Dean can't bring himself to talk about it.

Dean swears to tell him about it in the morning. Cas begrudgingly agrees, switching off the light once Dean's downed all of his juice.

Dean's mind won't shut up, though, and he's about ninety percent sure he won't be falling asleep any time tonight. Cas seems to pick up on this, however, and suddenly there's a hand pressing against his crotch, and Dean is pretty embarrassed by the gasp that escapes him.

"Do you want me to...?"

"Yes. Yes, _please_ , Cas."

Cas strips him down, leaving him completely nude. Dean's never felt more exposed than he does right then. Earlier, it was like his entire life got dismantled, and now, laying against the bedspread of another man, buck-naked? It's almost too much.

Cas kisses his lips, then his collarbones, travelling down his chest to his nipples, lavishing them in attention until Dean's bucking up off the mattress, the noises he's making a combination of a moan and a sob. Cas reaches for each of his hands, kissing his palms, then his wrists. Cas holds onto one of Dean's hands as he crawls further down, mouthing at his hipbones. Dean's entire body _shakes_ , and when Cas finally wraps his lips around Dean's erection, tears drip down the sides of Dean's face.

Clutching his hand tightly, Cas moves up and down along the shaft, licking a slow stripe up the underside. More tears keep coming, leaving salty tracks along Dean's cheeks, something Cas will undoubtedly notice once he's finished wrecking him.

"Cas," he chokes out. There's nothing more he has to say; the sentence begins and ends with Cas.

Cas pulls off for a moment, breathes _I know_ into Dean's inner thigh, and then resumes his ministrations.

Dean keeps his sobs in his chest, and instead chooses to knit his fingers through Cas' soft hair, trying to keep some sort of grasp on reality.

He's Dean Smith. This is real. Cas is real. This pleasure is _real._ Dean is _real, goddamnit_ \--

He comes with a cry, eyes squeezed shut. He's gripping Cas' hair so tightly he's sure he must be hurting him, but Cas doesn't falter for a second, his throat a fixed presence around his cock while his thumb rubs unending reassurance into Dean's knuckle. For a second, Dean's mind is an empty slate _—_ just blurry, contented nothingness.

His eyes open slowly, gritty from the tears, and Cas' face is inches from his, their noses almost touching. Cas brushes his fingers along the tears tracks, eyebrows pinched together. "None of this," he whispers, yet Dean's fairly sure he can see a lonely little teardrop making its way down Cas' cheek.

Dean's throat feels thick; Cas' name is the only thing that manages to slip through.

Cas smiles sadly, then lifts two fingers to press against Dean's forehead. "It's going to be okay," Cas tells him, and then Dean knows nothing but darkness.

_———_

Morning comes far too early. Cas wakes him at seven, and Dean feels so awful he wonders if he can smother himself with one of these damn cushions just to end the pain. He's so sleep deprived he feels nauseated. His stomach seems to be consuming itself.

Dean fixes himself yoghurt and apricots from Cas' fridge while Cas irons out the clothes Dean had been wearing yesterday. Consequentially, Dean's in nothing but his briefs, and while the cold from the night before has mostly faded, he's still got goosebumps dotting his flesh.

Dean explains what happened the night before, giving as much detail as he can while trying to shove food into his mouth. Cas takes it all in stride, of course, like he'd been waiting for the confirmation of monsters his entire life. Cas asks him questions here and there: how did you know the ghost's weaknesses? Did security catch you? Did you see the ghost die? What did he look like? The conversation flows like they're discussing the weather, which is completely _absurd_.

"What are you going to do now?"

Dean frowns. He's in the middle of buttoning up his shirt, which is still hot from the iron. "What do you mean?"

Cas shrugs. "Monsters are real. How do you plan to...deal with this new information?"

Dean slips a yellow tie beneath his collar. It's in stark contrast to the navy blue one around Cas' neck. Dean's never seen Cas wear that particular colour before. "Haven't really processed it all yet. Still feel like life just took me by the lapels and backhanded me."

Cas smirks at that. He kneels down to place a bowl of kibble in front of Buttons, who gulps the meal down at an alarming rate. "Good kitty," Cas coos, scratching between its ears. Dean wrinkles his nose at the creature. His eyes have been a little puffy this morning, and he's fairly certain it's from the cat hair that's somehow managed to infiltrate every nook and cranny of Cas' home.

It's nearing eight o'clock now, a time that would normally cause Dean some anxiety because there's every chance he's going to be late. Today, however, it barely phases him. He's still feeling weirdly detached from his surroundings, moving at a slower pace to everything else.

When they finally make it out the door, Dean takes a moment to pause and look around him. His Prius is parked on the driveway at a ridiculous angle, something Dean hadn't cared for last night. The sky is a shade of grey today, no sunbeams able to make their way through. Cas' lawn is longer, probably in need a mow sometime soon. Dean's never actually mowed before.

At the sound of Cas locking up the front door, Dean feels his heartbeat quicken, something urgent taking over him. When Cas turns around, Dean lays a kiss on him, Cas making a little squeak of surprise. Dean backs him up against the door, like he's trying to blend them into the timber.

Once they break apart, Cas looks at him with a dazed expression. "What was that for?"

"Let's call in sick." His hands having found their way beneath Cas' blazer, Dean runs them and down Cas' side suggestively. "We'll make pancakes and stay in bed all day."

"Thought you were detoxing," Cas says, grinning.

"Screw the detox."

"We have work, Dean. We can't call in sick on the same day. Surely someone will notice."

"No one will care. I don't care."

"You should care."

"But I don't," Dean insists. "Do you?"

Cas has a long, internal struggle. Dean watches the way Cas bites at his bottom lips, and he barely resists kissing the indecision off Cas' face. "I care," Cas says finally, and Dean feels his shoulders slump.

"Fine."

"Don't pout," Cas chides, then leans in and kisses him thoroughly. They kiss for so long that Dean's finding it very hard to not rub up against Cas' thigh.

Dean puts space between them after a solid few minutes, smirking at the sheen on Cas' pink lips. "You sure you don't want to stay here all day? I might even return that favour from last night."

"You're making this very difficult," Cas grumbles, but the next kiss that follows is the last. "We have to go."

Resigned, Dean watches Cas head to the garage, knowing he has to reverse his Prius so that Cas can get out. Dean approaches his car, unlocking it and slipping his fingers under the cool handle. "Cas," he calls. Cas spins around, eyebrow raised expectantly. "Cas, I _—_ " _Don't say 'I love you', idiot. You've known him what, three weeks?_ "I'm gonna miss you."

Cas laughs. "You can come over tonight. Bring champagne."

"Sure, Cas."

Cas tilts his head to the side, a gesture that, now that Dean thinks about it, seems oddly familiar. "I'll see you soon, Dean."

As Dean's driving away, he's not so sure that he will.

_———_

One moment he's Dean Smith, director of sales and marketing, sitting opposite his boss and talking about the future.

Next minute, he's Dean Winchester, being talked down to by some dickhead angel named Zachariah. He's also really fucking hungry.

For a few days, he puts the pseudo-reality Zachariah concocted to the back of his mind, preferring to concentrate on the bigger issues, like Sam's demon blood addiction or his own role in this Apocalypse mess.

Then, eventually, he hears the telling _whoosh_ of wings that signals Castiel's arrival, and those memories come to forefront of his mind. It's hard to look the angel in the eye, and Dean has to come up with an explanation for, _"Why is your face so red, Dean?_ "

That whole head-over-heels love story he and that other Cas had shared? Must have been some sort of joke. Zachariah made up that reality so he could easily have paired up him and Cas, pulled the strings that made them attracted to one another. It would explain the weird tug he'd experienced, constantly being drawn to Cas, despite the fact he hadn't known him back then. Besides, nothing about _Dean Smith_ was similar to Dean Winchester, except for their handsome mugs. Dean Smith drove a _Prius_ for Christ's sake.

As time passes, though, throughout the Apocalypse and beyond, Dean starts second-guessing himself. There are little moments they share, lingering gazes and intimate confessions that make Dean question his relationship with Cas. He decides that it's a kind of brother relationship — like Sam, but different.

But Cas absorbs the Leviathans and winds up killing himself, and Dean doesn't have a fucking clue what to think anymore. _Brother_ was a safe word. This constant gnawing in his chest, though, as if his heart's shrivelling up, deflating like a balloon, makes him wonder.

He drinks himself blind, tries to forget. When he's not dreaming about Castiel, coated in blood and black goo, sinking into a dark lake and never re-emerging, he's dreaming of that other Castiel, from another lifetime. The one who shared his bed and body heat and kissed him like it gave him life.

Then there's the Emmanuel mess, followed swiftly by the Purgatory situation, and everything is one hundred percent fucked up, but Dean finally figures it out:

He loves Cas. More than a friend, not like a brother. _Love_ , and all it entails — sharing beds, holding hands, kissing him until his lips turn numb. Hell, he'd even go down on him, has fantasised about it a few times, despite the fact the idea terrifies him as much as it excites.

Things just get more and more freaking complicated though. Dean, foolishly, thought that Purgatory was the crux of it all. It was the tip of the iceberg, unfortunately, because love's involved, and Cas doesn't want to be with him. Not in a strictly romantic sense, but just generally. He always leaves Dean behind; flutters off whenever he needs to. How much Naomi, manipulative puppeteer that she is, influenced those decisions is a mystery, but even so, it doesn't change the fact that Dean walks around like a part of his aorta is missing.  

Realistically, there is a lot of bad blood between them. All the lies and anger, constantly simmering beneath the surface; all those betrayals. Dean holds onto grudges, and he's not sure about Cas, but he's willing to bet that Cas has a few choice words to say to him, after everything.

Sometimes it seems like the most honest they've ever been with each other was in that other universe, when they were both spread out on the bed, completely nude. All of those quiet murmurings to each other, telling the other where to kiss and where to touch. Dean desperately wants that honesty between them, more than anything. He wants to tell Cas how he feels but he can't fucking read Cas whatsoever sometimes; doesn't know if Cas will even _get_ what love is, how he'd respond. The dude would probably just fly away and not bother addressing it, thinking of it as some trivial _human thing_.

So, when they're sitting in a bar together, acknowledging that this is a goodbye but not actually saying it aloud, Dean doesn't come clean. He says some stupid goddamn line about _E.T. Goes Home_ and _of course_ the meaning is lost on Cas. The quizzical look is adorable but Dean doesn't say that, either. He turns towards his beer, forcing his mouth do something else other than try and make words happen.

Before he can help it, he closes his eyes and it's as if he's right there, running his fingers through other Cas' hair, relishing in the texture, listening to Cas fucking mewl in his arms. The higher pitch of his voice when he takes a nipple between his teeth. Coming apart because of the careful hands stroking the sides of his face. Going to restaurants, buying him an Art Tatum album ( _Christ_ ), the whole shebang. Like they ever had a chance at normal life.

He glances over at Cas, who's preoccupied with some archery show on the television. He could do it. He could make a move _right fucking now_ , get all of that tension out in the open, know what it's like to kiss the real Cas; knows it would probably be even better than what he remembers.

But he can't do that. He just _can't_.

He grips his beer tighter, brings it to his mouth, and _yearns_.

**Author's Note:**

> I do apologise for any typos!
> 
> If you're interested in finding me on tumblr (I am completely inactive on lj) my URL has recently changed to queernatural. Come and say hi!
> 
> I really hoped you enjoyed!


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